


Respite

by dancingontheedge



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: 1860s medicine is ugly business, American Civil War, Gen, Philosophy, introspective, musings on the nature of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7818715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingontheedge/pseuds/dancingontheedge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry Hopkins ponders the nature of war in a stolen moment of quiet.  Introspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

Henry Hopkins stepped carefully into the library, taking a deep breath as he closed the door behind him. He was certain that no-one with a soul could administer to the injured and dying men at Mansion House hospital and maintain anything but hatred for warfare. All the illusory glory and glamour of the battlefield was stripped away as men sullied sheets with their blood, sweat, and tears, sobbing in agony while their dreams slipped away.

His hatred for this strange, horrible war was a cold hard thing that had settled at the base of his breastbone. It was far different from the blinding rage that had led him to destroy a life, and different again from the sick guilt he felt remembering it. No, this hatred was the kind that made people silent and still, like the creeping chill of frostbite.

He did not hate any of the soldiers– not the Confederates facing the friends of his boyhood in Ohio, not the Union men visiting untold horrors upon Southern citizens, not even the universally despised deserters from both sides. And he believed in the cause. To preserve the union, to free the slaves. But while a good cause may justify a war, it would never make warfare a moral deed. No matter how good the cause or noble the combatants, no war in the history of humankind was anything but an amoral cesspool of death and loss and grief.

In an environment like that–like this– a light must be found in whatever possible. As chaplain, he tried to be a light shining through the darkness of misery to show God’s mercy and forgiveness. But sometimes he felt useless, seeing the despair of amputees and the grief of widows, day in and day out.

It was draining. Some days, like today, it was as though he could feel the energy and hope escaping from him. On those days, when it was hot and sticky and the men were dying with nothing to be done, he moved with purpose, hoping to see each one and reassure them that they were loved. But after a time, his words started to feel a little hollow, and he knew that he needed to spend some time not surrounded by endless death.

That was usually when he retired to the library, where he had talked to Tom, to breath in the smell of books and polished wood for half an hour of contemplation before he returned to the thick of things.

He looked around that room now; it seemed cooler than the rest of the house somehow, though there was no reason for that to be the case. He took another deep, meditative breath, and remembered the boys who had smiled at him gratefully through the pain. That was why he was here, to bring spiritual comfort. If he helped just one it was worth it. It was worth it to bring the Lord’s grace and mercy to this hellhole where the ornate wallpaper was spattered with more blood every day. It was worth it to comfort the dying and help the lost find their way. It was worth it. It had to be. 

He dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on either side of the chessboard, and took one last deep breath of the clean air of the library before lifting his head and standing up. He had amputees to visit and dying boys to pray with.


End file.
